by the unfamiliar environs, he tried to regain his bearings.
London.
Berkeley Square.
He was lying on an enormous bed, pretending to be someone else, with no one seemingly the wiser.
And thanks to complete exhaustion, he’d had the first sound night’s sleep he’d enjoyed in nearly six months.
He lay still a moment, determining how best to proceed and wondering how Merrick fared in Glen Abbey. Had he revealed himself as yet? Or did he, too, have cause to hold his tongue?
Only time would tell.
One thing was certain—the man was bound to have had one hell of a headache after Ian’s head butt. Only Angus McPherson had a harder head than Ian.
Morning light streamed in through draperies that had, apparently, never been drawn. The sun’s rays cut a gilded path across the room, illuminating the figure of a man seated cross-legged on the bare floor at the far end of the apartment.
The unexpected presence gave Ian a start.
It took him a groggy instant to realize it was only Ryo, who sat facing the bed, his eyes closed. He remained still, his palms resting on his thighs. Was he praying? Meditating?
In either case, what the devil was he doing in Merrick’s bedroom?
“You are awake, denka,” the little man said, though he hadn’t bothered to open his eyes.
Ian dragged a hand across his whiskers. “Bloody hell! It’s damned fortunate for me that you weren’t bent on my demise,” he groused. “I never even heard you enter the room.”
The foreigner opened his eyes, tilting Ian an undecipherable glance. “A man at peace has little to fear. But he who seeks revenge should remember to dig two graves,” he said cryptically.
A warning?
Ryo sat unmoving, his passive posture scarcely any threat. Ian studied him, wondering what role he played in Merrick’s life. It was quickly becoming apparent he was something more than a driver.
A bodyguard, perhaps?
But the notion nearly made Ian laugh out loud. Ryo was hardly of a stature to protect himself, much less anyone else. And yet, he had somehow managed to evade Rusty Broun.
“You have much to do today,” the little man announced, ceasing with the riddles and disregarding Ian’s scrutiny. “Your father wishes an audience. He was much displeased that you did not seek him at once upon your return.”
So bloody what.
Let the bastard wait.
Considering how best to evade everyone for the remainder of the day, and Ryo in particular, Ian dragged himself to the edge of the bed to remove his boots.
Ryo was right about one thing: Ian did have much to do today. However, none of it had a bloody thing to do with Ryo’s, Merrick’s or his father’s agenda.
“I must first speak with you regarding a matter of some importance,” Ryo said.
Ian grimaced. He wasn’t entirely certain he wished to hear what the man had to say. He stood and turned his back to Ryo, pretending to occupy himself with his morning ministrations.
Someone, presumably Ryo, had arranged a fresh set of clothing upon the valet at the foot of the bed. Ian examined the shirt he was wearing, unbuttoned the wrinkled garment, removed it and tossed it upon the bed, glad for the change of clothes.
So, he determined, Ryo was a driver, a bodyguard, a secretary and a valet. What else?
“I have a tale I wish to share, if you will allow it.”
“Go on,” Ian allowed, though reluctantly.
“In my country,” Ryo began without further invitation, “there is the tale of a man whose horse escaped him and wandered into the territory of the northern tribes.”
Whatever he’d expected the man to share, it certainly wasn’t a blessed bedtime story. He cast Ryo a questioning glance.
Ryo ignored it, continuing with his tale. “Everyone consoled this man, except his father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will turn out to be a blessing.’”
Unbidden, Ian’s thoughts wandered to the girl from Grosvenor Square.
It was doubtful he would ever see her again, so why did he persist in thinking of her?
He’d dreamed of her this morning. Thank heavens he hadn’t pleasured himself in Ryo’s presence. He didn’t embarrass easily, but a little privacy was certainly in order. It seemed a man couldn’t even relieve himself in this place without a bloody audience.
“After a time,” Ryo persisted, “the man’s horse returned with a mare. And everyone congratulated him, except the father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will soon turn out to be a curse.’”
Ian fastened his trousers, willing away the evidence of his unwanted arousal. Damn, he apparently needed only think of the woman to lose control over his body’s reaction.
“Is there a point to this fairy tale?” Ian snapped.
“Well, since this man now had two horses,” Ryo went on, ignoring Ian’s question, “his young son became fond of riding and eventually broke his leg by falling from his horse. Everyone consoled him, except his father, who said, ‘Perhaps this will soon turn out to be a blessing.’”
Ian finished dressing and sat on the bed, waiting for the end of Ryo’s nonsensical tale.
“So what’s the moral of the story?” he asked.
“One year later, the northern tribes invaded. All able-bodied men took up arms and nine out of ten men died. But the man’s young son did not join the fight because he was crippled, and so, both the son and his father survived.”
Ryo sat quietly, staring back at him.
He seemed to be looking for some reaction to his story, Ian thought, though what he was searching for, Ian hadn’t a bloody clue. “That’s it?” he asked.
Ryo nodded.
Bloody hell.
Ian had never been one to mince words. If he’d been discovered, let the man say so instead of speaking in riddles. “Is there something you’re trying to say?”
Ryo heaved a sigh, then finally spoke clearly, “Only time will tell whether the journey to Glen Abbey will be, not merely your father’s misfortune, but yours as well, denka.”
He leveled Ian a look that spoke volumes, and Ian realized that Ryo knew more than he was willing to reveal—much more.
The driver added, “Last night I was summoned to give my report. I revealed nothing.”
“Why?”
He narrowed his eyes at Ian, reaching up to stroke his short beard, as though in contemplation. And then he returned to his riddles. “It is said that three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.” He sighed. “The wine of fate has been poured. Now, everyone must drink.”
Claire swallowed her pride and revealed her destination. It was far more palatable than Huntington’s offer.
How could she ever face Lexie again after her father’s indecent proposal? How could she ever bear to show her face to the world if she were to commit such a disgraceful act?
“Madam!” Jasper argued with her. “Surely Lord Huntington could not mean for you to go there?”
Claire ignored his protest. “I haven’t any choice,” she told him.
And truly, she didn’t.
She most certainly didn’t need the distress of an argument this morning. Jasper had never dared question her before her